


my love has concrete feet

by elaphoi



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, ruth is a service top 😔, set in season one so the relationship dynamic is...extremely unhealthy, some character study and some sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaphoi/pseuds/elaphoi
Summary: Because Ruth’s drowning in nothing; that’s common knowledge between them. And maybe sometimes Ruth wishes she could hold Debbie’s head underwater with her, if only for the company.
Relationships: Debbie Eagan & Ruth Wilder, Debbie Eagan/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 15
Kudos: 134





	my love has concrete feet

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during early-S1, and while I do 100% believe they have the potential to be happily and healthily in love once they resolve their issues, this is...not that, so warnings for some generally messy dynamics. I'm glad this is done so I can finally stop listening to 80s ballads on a loop.

For once, Debbie is beneath her. 

Ruth’s leveraging her full weight, spread eagle across Debbie’s body with an arm braced against her throat. She’s pressing harder than she should, and the skin flares red beneath her grip. Debbie pulls breath sharply in through her nose, but she doesn’t protest. It had been her idea for Ruth to pin her this way, savagely and without restraint. 

There’s a raised mound above Ruth’s right ear, beneath her hair. Her ass is still mottled in shades of purple where Liberty Belle had flattened her to the ground in their last match. It twinges when she sits, and lately Ruth had taken to pissing with her body half-raised, leaning her weight to one side like a sideshow acrobat. 

Debbie doesn’t know this, though Ruth suspects it wouldn’t matter if she did. Their relationship has always been firm on at least one point: Ruth takes the hit. 

Usually, she deserves it. 

***

Ruth’s lying in bed with Debbie, watching _Paradise Cove_. 

Mark’s away on business, and Randy’s dozing, thankfully, in the corner bassinet. So, they’re nursing margaritas — heavy on the tequila; light on the everything else — and Ruth’s got her head in Debbie’s lap. Debbie’s carding a hand through Ruth’s hair, working the curls into some rough approximation of a braid. She’s got her knees drawn up, and her cold feet wedged beneath Ruth’s ass. Debbie grins, and says, “Oh, you have an ass somewhere underneath all that denim?” when Ruth points this out, which is uncharitable, but probably not inaccurate. 

“Fuck you,” Ruth tells her, wincing when Debbie wrenches her hair in retaliation. 

Onscreen, Laura Morgan’s husband is flatlining. Laura drops to her knees at his bedside and blots her tears on the linen bed sheets. The music — some somber, orchestral rendition of the title theme — swells to an emotional crescendo. And Ruth breathes a tipsy laugh against Debbie’s thighs. 

Abruptly, Debbie yanks her legs out from under Ruth. Ruth’s head drops sharply forward to glance off the mattress. She props her chin in her hand and turns on her side to look at Debbie, with her rumpled clothes and half-faded makeup and the red imprint of Ruth's face on her thigh. “Seriously?” Debbie asks, around a mouthful of hairpins. She spits them into her palm. “This is funny to you?” 

“It’s just, y’know.” Ruth rises up on her knees, smiling uncertainly. “A little melodramatic, that’s all.” 

Through the dense fog of Debbie’s tequila, Ruth surmises this had been the wrong answer. “It’s a fucking soap opera,” Debbie snaps. “Jesus, my career is a joke to you, isn’t it?” Her voice is rising, and Randy comes sharply awake, howling from his cradle. Debbie swears beneath her breath and moves to take him in her arms, rubbing soothing circles against his back. She hisses, more quietly now, “Obviously you’re fine with putting on Ibsen at your community theater and eating Froot Loops for dinner every night, but not all of us have that kind of saintly _fucking_ integrity, Ruth.” 

Ruth drags a hand down her face. “Fuck,” she says, on an exhale. “Debbie, I’m sorry. I was laughing at the script, not at — God, not at you.” 

They had mocked _Paradise Cove_ together before Debbie was cast. But it’s different now that it’s hers; Ruth had known that much even before she laughed. Debbie had trusted her to take it seriously when even Mark wouldn’t. And Ruth’s drunk, but she’s sober enough to know that doesn’t mean much. Because Ruth’s drowning in nothing; that’s common knowledge between them. And maybe sometimes Ruth wishes she could hold Debbie’s head underwater with her, if only for the company. 

Debbie snarls, “Bullshit,” and Ruth thinks she’s not far off.

***

Tonight, Debbie had prised Ruth’s fingers from her waist and hissed, “If you’re going to pin me, stop fucking around and do it,” with enough venom to startle Ruth silent. 

The truth is this: Ruth had poured so much of herself into appeasing Debbie, she doesn’t think she’s capable of much else. She's grown used to calibrating every response in conversation to convey meek penitence, postponing every decision pending Debbie’s approval. Ruth had sought to fold in on herself — neatly, one section at a time, like the little paper fortune tellers she had liked to make at school as a kid. 

Ruth sees these attempts at reconciliation for what they are, with a sudden and brutal clarity. She can crawl on her knees all she wants; simpering or not, she’s still a fucking monster, right? That doesn’t change, no matter how Ruth plays this. 

She guesses she owes Debbie some transparency, at least.

That’s how she finds herself like this, straddling Debbie, leaning an elbow on her windpipe. Ruth braces for impending anger, like an animal cringing back from its owner’s hand, but Debbie says, “Better,” with grudging satisfaction. Some feeble corner of Ruth’s mind eases at this, basking in the brief absence of Debbie’s resentment. It’s pathetic, Ruth knows, but she’s learned to mine fragments of friendship where she can. 

They run it a second time, in character. It’s easier like this, when Ruth can inhabit Zoya’s skin. Debbie catcalls in that voice she reserves for Liberty Belle, for Uncle Sam and apple pie. It’s like muscle memory, this thing between them; some dormant instinct in Debbie rises to meet its equal in Ruth. Debbie would like nothing more than to bury their connection, and Ruth takes grim satisfaction in the knowledge that she can’t, because Ruth is too persistent a ghost; or maybe (more likely) because it’s lucrative now, and Debbie’s always got her eye on the prize. 

Debbie lunges. Ruth feints and barks Zoya’s harsh, theatrical laugh, and then she’s got her thighs around Debbie’s face and she’s riding her all the way down. It isn’t gentle; Debbie’s head snaps back against the mat, and Ruth’s knees throb on impact. Her nails are buried in the skin of Debbie’s shoulders. Abruptly embarrassed, Ruth loosens her grip. But Debbie doesn’t register the absence. She’s flushed, and breathing hard, and her eyes are fixed on Ruth. 

She shifts onto her elbows. Ruth scoots back to accommodate, liking the slide of Debbie’s lycra bodysuit down her legs. “Is it just me,” Debbie says, “or are we getting good at this?” She’s grinning like a shark. Ruth wants to answer with something clever or funny, or preferably both. She’s staring instead, at Debbie’s chest rising and falling in jagged rhythm, and the sheen of sweat on skin pulled taut over the blades of her collarbones. “What?” Debbie demands, with an edge of self-consciousness, like she’s convinced Ruth is inspecting the bruise above her armpit, or an unsavory mole. 

Debbie should know better by now. Ruth’s looked at her like this before. 

Successful Debbie; sexy Debbie; loving wife and mother Debbie; television fucking star Debbie. It would have been enough for Ruth, but Debbie kept her hunger. Ruth had emptied herself trying to feed it, and fucked Mark to take it all back. 

That’s what she tells herself, anyway. Sometimes Ruth’s not so sure.

***

Ruth’s had the car idling for nearly twenty minutes when the door swings open and Debbie crams herself inside. She’s red-faced and her hair is disheveled, and Ruth knows without needing to ask that Debbie slept with Mark tonight. Debbie rifles in her purse for the battered pack of Lucky Strikes, plucks a cigarette loose, and jams it between her teeth. “Light me,” she says, jutting her chin in Ruth’s direction, and Ruth reaches for the zippo lighter on her dashboard and leans forward. 

Debbie’s in her beaded dress, the slinky number with the gold trim, and it jingles as she scoots closer. The neckline hangs at an odd angle, so Ruth slides a hand up Debbie’s back and yanks the zipper higher. Debbie’s skin is hot beneath the plastic teeth and damp with sweat. “So,” Ruth says, smiling woodenly, “How was it?” 

“Good,” Debbie says. She shakes her head, and covers her face with both hands. “Bad,” she amends, the confession muffled against her palms. She’s laughing, with a kind of drunken hysteria. “He couldn’t even fucking get it up.” 

Ruth’s mouth falls open. “No!” she gasps, perversely delighted. 

Debbie’s got one hand over her eyes. “I’m glad someone’s enjoying this,” she says, tapping ashes out the open window. Ruth looks sideways at Debbie. Her eyeliner, neon blue, is smudged out at the corners; she’s kicked off her shoes, and rucked her dress up around her hips, and Ruth’s eyes follow, without meaning to, the path her legs make from the passenger seat and down into shadow. “Trust me,” Ruth says, with conviction, “If he can’t get it up for you, he can’t get it up for anyone.” 

Debbie catches her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down. “Oh, please,” she scoffs. 

It isn’t a point worth pressing. Debbie, Ruth thinks, doesn’t get it, the effect she has on other people; she doesn’t see what they see when they look at her. 

“Debbie,” Ruth says, almost cautiously. “Why are you even dating this guy?” 

Debbie stubs out her cigarette on the dashboard. Ruth nearly scolds her for it, but they both know her car is on its last leg, and anyway, she’s never seen Debbie look like this before. “I don’t know,” Debbie tells her — and then flings open the door and promptly vomits onto the concrete. “Shit,” Debbie mutters, wiping at her mouth with the back of a hand. “Shit, Ruth. I’m sorry.” 

Ruth pulls closer to smooth the hair back from Debbie’s forehead; she smells like sex, and booze and a little of whatever she’s just heaved onto the side of the road. Some of it had gotten on the car, and Ruth knows she’ll be on her knees scrubbing it tonight. “I didn’t realize you were that drunk?” Ruth says, rifling in the glove compartment for tissues. She comes up with a wad of Wendy’s napkins and thrusts them into Debbie’s hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Debbie says again, and her voice is thick with something Ruth can’t place. “I’ll clean it.” She takes a fistful of napkins and glides them clumsily across the nearest surface. 

Ruth lays a hand over Debbie’s and feels it shaking beneath her. “Debbie,” she says gently. “I’ve got it, okay? It’s fine. Go inside. Get some sleep.” Debbie looks at her with red-rimmed eyes. And Ruth adds, with concern, “Do you want me to come in with you?” 

Debbie is still watching her, with a kind of trance-like intensity. She’s bouncing her leg, striking her knee against the underside of the glove compartment with every upwards sweep, and her free hand, the hand not claimed by Ruth, is draped across the lower half of her face. And then Debbie is dislodging her hand and pitching forward to take Ruth in her arms. She buries her nose in the crook of Ruth’s neck, and Ruth, with tentative surprise, strokes her fingers through Debbie’s hair. Debbie hisses, “Ouch. Fuck,” when Ruth’s thumb catches on a strand hair-sprayed into stiffness, and pulls back, choking out a watery laugh. 

“Thank you,” she says, smiling with a fondness that ties Ruth’s stomach in knots. 

Ruth watches Debbie amble up the front walk, barefoot with her heels held in her hand; she doesn’t turn her key in the ignition until the door clicks shut behind Debbie and the upstairs lights flick on, one by one. 

***

Debbie leans her weight back and says, “Ruth,” in that hard, colorless way that makes Ruth’s stomach bottom out. Ruth is well versed in translation; Debbie’s thinking she’s got Randy waiting up for her at home, and one hour to cook something edible before Mark pops a Swanson TV dinner in the microwave, and she doesn’t have time for Ruth’s insufferable bullshit tonight. Debbie will shove Ruth off her, and snatch her purse from the bottom bench of the bleachers, and drive home to Pasadena. 

It may as well have been Venus. 

So, Ruth hitches her thighs more securely around Debbie’s waist, and leans down and crashes their mouths together. It’s her most pathetic ploy for attention to date. Ruth gets that; she does. But there’s a window, brief, and rich with potential, before mortification sets in fully, and Ruth intends to take advantage. Except she takes Debbie’s bottom lip between her teeth, and Debbie moans, unmistakably, into Ruth’s open mouth. Ruth scrambles back, palms stinging as they hit the mat, and stares. 

“Fuck,” Debbie groans. She’s got a hand splayed against her forehead, like Ruth is a migraine she’s trying to ward off. “Fuck!” Ruth opens her mouth, but Debbie cuts her off. “Don’t. Don’t you dare fucking apologize.” 

Her lipstick's smeared at the corners, mouth pink and swollen. Ruth swallows, and waits for Debbie to say it: You fucked my husband. 

She should, Ruth thinks; she should. She doesn’t, though. 

Debbie exhales. She’s nodding in measured rhythm, and her eyes are fixed on a point left of Ruth’s shoulder, like she can’t bear to look at her. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone,” Debbie warns. 

Ruth shakes her head emphatically. “No,” she breathes. “No. Debbie, of course not.” 

“I’m sorry,” comes spilling from Ruth’s mouth before she can help herself. Debbie makes a noise of disgust, leans up on her elbows, and presses her mouth to Ruth’s, silencing her. Ruth nearly protests until Debbie’s tongue teases her lips apart, and any lingering indecision is snuffed out like a candle’s flame between two fingers. Debbie kisses harshly, engraving runes in the flesh of Ruth’s back with the points of her nails. She frees a hand to wedge between Ruth’s legs, applying steady pressure until Ruth is gasping into her mouth. “Debbie,” she groans, and clenches, with helpless exasperation, around that pressure. 

Debbie’s mouth meets the shell of her ear. “Do you want to fuck me or not?” she asks. 

It falls like a weight to the chest. Ruth struggles to breathe. “Yes,” she says, strained. And Debbie’s mouth pulls at one corner, with a kind of vicious satisfaction. She’s canted forward, her hair mussed and the straps of her bodysuit askew, baring the tanned slopes of her shoulders. “Lean back,” Ruth says quietly. She can hardly hear herself speak over the panicked thud of her pulse in her ears. 

Debbie blinks. “What?” 

Ruth breathes in shakily. “Lean back,” she repeats, more firmly now. Her hands come to rest against Debbie’s shoulders, and Debbie — stripped of her rage, beautiful in sudden uncertainty — bends to their gentle pressure. Debbie obligingly arches her back, and Ruth smooths the leotard over her breasts, baring the sweat-dampened planes of her stomach. There’s a sharp intake of breath as Ruth lays a hand between Debbie’s thighs, tangling her fingers in that patch of bright hair. Debbie is wet already with anticipation; with the memory of Ruth’s mouth on hers, and Ruth’s thumb working in slow, grazing strokes over her clit. 

For her; all for her. Ruth is lightheaded with the realization. 

Debbie’s got her head turned to one side, digging the point of her chin into her shoulder. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, half-closed, and Ruth wants — stupidly; dangerously — to kiss her again. She doesn’t, because that’s not what this is; that’s not what they are to each other. 

Ruth knows that. 

Instead, Ruth spreads Debbie’s legs apart, and ducks her head between them. Her hands settle over Debbie’s hips, holding her steady as Ruth buries her mouth in Debbie’s wetness. Ruth escalates the slow, concentrated pull of her tongue into steady strokes, and Debbie bucks against her mouth, moaning low in her throat. She’s braced to add her fingers, but Debbie, with mounting desperation, winds both hands in Ruth’s hair, forces Ruth down, and holds her firmly there. Ruth lets her, liking Debbie’s slickness on her chin, the friction of Debbie’s thighs on her cheeks; and hating herself for that, just a little. 

Does he do this for you? Ruth wants to ask. Does he make you feel like this? 

She doesn't; it isn't her place. 

Ruth makes her come with only her mouth, circling Debbie’s clit with her tongue and — finally — sucking mercilessly at that same spot, until Debbie falls limp against her. She presses her mouth to the soft underside of Debbie’s thigh, her concession to an almost-kiss. Debbie’s grip loosens, releasing her, and Ruth quickly disentangles herself, breathing like a diver surfacing for air. 

Debbie lays the back of a hand against Ruth’s cheek, feeling the film of her own wetness there. “I’m sorry,” she says, with more tenderness than Ruth feels equipped to handle. She reaches down to rub her fingers over Ruth’s clit, where the spandex is stained dark. “I can…” Debbie bites her lip, and Ruth thinks — not without resentment — she looks beautiful like this, flushed with the climax Ruth had given her. “Shit,” Debbie mutters, laughing now. “This is insane.” 

Her hand remains, stroking Ruth through the barrier of her clothes. She had only pulled her leotard halfway up, and her breasts are uncovered. Ruth thinks, under different circumstances, she might have liked to put her mouth on them. The realization sits like a weight in her chest. And Debbie says, “I can try, if you want,” with such earnest intent Ruth feels nauseous. She tears her eyes from Debbie and her perfect tits, and that look that is too far removed from hatred for comfort. 

Ruth peels back Debbie’s hand. “Don’t,” she says quietly, and Debbie goes rigid; her expression turns briefly hostile, and then indifferent. 

“Fine,” Debbie says, and stands to yank her leotard into place. Ruth is still kneeling with her legs half-parted for Debbie’s hand, even as Debbie ducks beneath the ropes and swipes her purse from the bleachers. “We have dress rehearsals at noon tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder, like Ruth hadn’t committed their schedules to memory the moment Sam passed them out. 

Ruth doesn’t answer; she clenches her legs, wipes her stinging eyes, and listens for the slam of the gym door. 

***

The thing is, it’s always been Debbie, even when it wasn’t; even when it was Mark. 

Ruth slots a hand between her legs and presses up against the sodden fabric, where Debbie had touched her before. She slides two fingers past the cut of her leotard and plunges inside without ceremony. Ruth keeps her eyes fixed on the ropes as she builds her pace; she doesn’t like to think what she might see if she closes them. 

Her touch is brisk and practiced. Ruth knows what she likes and where she likes it; and besides, she had been halfway to release long before she ever touched herself. She crooks a finger against her clit and shudders through the aftershocks of a dull climax.

Ruth's smearing her hand against the mat when her chest heaves, and a ragged sound works its way up her throat and out her mouth; she squats in the empty ring and sobs until her sides ache, and her nose is crusted with snot.

Then she stands and shrugs on her windbreaker, and drives home. 


End file.
